Yes...I Inhale

There's a light rain this Sunday morn as I stroll down the street in my Rome neighborhood. The air full-bodied post-rain. Carrying the scent of still-blooming flowers. Growing up in Minnesota, I remember the smell of fresh dirt, awakened by the rain. Smells---evocative and immediate, release a Roman story...

• I was surprised when Alberto said, "I love the smell of the dust." Yet, it makes sense. A city rising up out of ancient, crumbling ruins. We love what we know and have come to love. 
• As I stand on the balcony. I lean out to retrieve the clothes from the line. The clothespin releases. I inhale---and there it is. A sweet surprise. My nose is smack dab in the middle of a pot of fresh basil. 
• I emerge from the Metro in an old part of town, but new to me. Need to get my bearings. The older woman in the sweater speaks no English, simply takes my arm and off we go.  Peaceful. Together, we walk under a collonade in the heart of Rome. Suddenly, she looks down and says, "Sparco!" with intensity. I have no idea. Is she referring to the gorgeous mosaic tiles underfoot...or the cigarette butts that lay there? Later, I learn, she's saying, "Dirty!" That's true. Rome has its share of trash for sure. Kind of adds to the earthiness of the place. Lots of smokers, too...now familiar and no longer off-putting.
• This morn I'm in Eva Oro---the Sicilian"Bar" nearby which is now like my "Cheers".  Luigi would love an American bride. Pino is the proud owner. Today---Sunday morning, it's a visual pastry feast. Croissant oozing with green fresh pistachio filling. These are every bit the masterpiece. Casual and magnificent. A giant croissant---at least 18 inches. They joke with a young man that he should buy for his "Tiamo" (lover). Large round pastries hang from the necks of bottles, like prizes. A young woman orders pistachio and hazelnut caffe. I follow her lead. Those who know me know I'm not a flavored coffee girl. This, however, was entirely different. Luigi takes a pitcher of the thick syrup (homemade)...and puts it under my nose. "Smell this!" Then he reaches in with a long spoon, takes some and smears it on the inside of a shot glass, the rim too. Next he pours in the espresso. I reach for the sugar (which this surely calls for), and he says no. And produces a packet of hazelnut sugar, opens it...and places it under my nose for a whiff. I'm soooooooo going to miss this place! Would I like to go dancing tomorrow night? Latin...Samba....Lots of Smiling, they say. Alas, I must pass as I'll board my plane early the next morn. An older gentleman appears. Former champion boxer, his wife now very ill with cancer. "Wait," I say---and place joy in his soft hands.  
• The lingering smell of rosewater in the bagno (bathroom).
• Sniffing homemade grappa.
• The tantalizing smells of Alessia's home cooking. Each day something new and more delicious. I feel like I've hit the jackpot.

It's midday now. Time for traditional Sunday dinner at home, round the table. There's a bustle in the kitchen. We gather. Antipasto course of soft cheese, (stracchino), cooked proscuitto and sundried tomatoes. Primo course of baked pastas (paccheri) with tomato sauce, bread crumbs and grated pecorino romano. More! Secundo course...a melange of roasted vegetables. Dolce course? I hear singing, look up...and see a cake with candles burning ("auguri"=good wishes). Surrounded by pastries. For me...my 56th birthday in three days. My eyes tear up. We hug. I cut. Alberto pours. Fresh caffe...robust and full and deep and dark and wonderful. This, my life. Me, so blessed, These, my friends. I inhale with gratitude.